


How firm Eternity must look

by diadema



Series: Forever is composed of Nows [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Character Study, Flash Fiction, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Inspired by Poetry, Multi, Prompt Fill, Romance, Short & Sweet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-05-16 05:23:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14805182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diadema/pseuds/diadema
Summary: Short and sweet Gallya vignettes. :)





	1. A not admitting of the wound

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Turningleaf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Turningleaf/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Birthday, Turningleaf! My dear friend, we are all so blessed for your presence in our fandom. You are an endless source of ideas and encouragement and the very heart of our Gallya family. Thank you for all that you do for us! <3
> 
> A million thanks to MilkshakeKate for organizing this surprise—your kindness inspires me to no end! And, of course, so much gratitude for my friends and partners-in-crime, Somedeepmystery and Festiveviolet31, for joining me on this adventure. Thanks for all the kind words and for helping me make a dent in my 'poem prompt' vault. :D Also, I am now officially at 150k words written for this fandom!!! 
> 
> I hope to be updating this with more vignettes as we go along... but in the meantime, I hope you all enjoy these mini-gifts! A quick note: each chapter takes its inspiration from the title of an Emily Dickinson poem, but do not reflect the poems themselves (I wait to read them until after I've written them). They're also meant to be stand-alone vignettes, though some of them do connect. :)

Illya has suffered every injury imaginable. He has been tortured and poisoned, beaten and bruised and brutalized. Felt the sting and burn of every threat, shame, and insult hurled at him. He is intimately, _exquisitely_ familiar with pain in all its forms.

None of it has ever hurt like this.

_Going soft, Peril?_

He had scoffed in response, at an impossibility that, for the first time in his life, felt agonizingly within reach. It was a not admitting of the wound, a transparent denial that he could _ever_ be pierced by Cupid’s arrow.

He’s not denying it now.

It had been an act of mercy, he thinks, to throw him to the wolves. Infinitely kinder to leave him angry, leave him aching, leave him _guessing._ He could have believed in her betrayal, held onto the burning coals of her memory—the dance of her dark eyes, the weight of her hand in his—until he was numb with it. Until he had learned his lesson and resurrected all of his walls once more.

Looking down at Gaby now, the truth revealed, the mission complete, the _goodbye_ inevitable, Illya finally understands what suffering is.

 _This_ is ruin. Unsalvageable, untamable, and ultimately, unstoppable. He has no chance of rebuilding or recovering after this. No _desire_ to if that means forgetting her. He has to leave her. He _must._

But how can he?

If a lifetime of pain has taught Illya anything, it is to surrender to it. And so, he offers her his heart, broken and undeserving as it is, and slips the ring back onto her finger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A not admitting of the wound  
> Until it grew so wide  
> That all my Life had entered it  
> And there were troughs beside -
> 
> A closing of the simple lid that opened to the sun  
> Until the tender Carpenter  
> Perpetual nail it down -


	2. The power to be true to You

Gaby storms into the hotel room, Illya close on her heels. The door clicks shut behind them, and she whirls around, the anger finally bubbling over. She jabs a finger at his chest. All the words she’d withheld on the drive home now burst forth from her like a dam breaking.

“You think,” she snaps, “you think that I am powerless. That I need you to step in and rescue me on these types of missions. You’re wrong.”

Illya opens his mouth to protest, but Gaby stops him. She shakes her head. “You’re _wrong,_ Illya. You forget that on these, these _honeypots,_ that _I_ am the one in control. Those men are at my mercy.”

Illya scoffs, eyes sweeping over her torn dress, her ruined hair, the sliver of brokenness that no bravado can hide. She can see it in the way he purses his lips, the unsteady way he’s breathing that he is angry. “Is that what you call it?”

Her spine stiffens instinctively. “Why shouldn’t I? It’s a powerful feeling. Being wanted. Knowing they can _have_ me. Right there in front of everyone.” She chuckles bitterly. “Discreet, maybe, but no secrets. Tell me _you_ wouldn’t want that.”

Illya inhales sharply, a wounded jealousy flaring in his eyes. His hands are at his sides, not quite fists, not quite trembling. “No,” he grits out. “Not like that.”

Gaby huffs and turns away, freezing when he adds, “I didn’t think that you would.”

“You have no idea what I—”

“You have made yourself very clear. You would prefer to be used, to be manhandled so long as you have an audience for it.” He shrugs, the tick in his jaw betraying him. “That is the _power_ you want.”

When she doesn’t answer, Illya steps forward, closing the distance between them to no more than a couple of inches. His hands firm over her upper arms, holding her there. Strong, but not ungentle. There is an edge, too, to his voice. A challenge. “If not that, then what?”

“The power to be true to _you,”_ she shouts, jerking out of his grip. “To be yours. _Only_ yours.”

Her voice drops to just above a whisper and she curses the stinging in her eyes. All the fight leaves her body, revealing something weary and world-worn. A bitter resignation to fate. “I want to pretend that you could ever belong to me.”

Illya goes still. His hands drop back to his sides, and he hangs his head. A long moment passes before he speaks. “You are much more powerful than you think.”

He cups her face, presses a featherlight kiss to her temple. Gaby wants to lean into his touch, but then he is gone, making his way towards the door. “Sleep,” he tells her. “I have important call to make in the morning.”

“Stay.” It is a question, a demand, and a prayer in one, barely audible over the lump in her throat. _“Please.”_

Illya’s hand hovers over the doorknob. She sees the tension leave his shoulders as he nods. Gaby threads her fingers with his and pulls him to her bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The power to be true to You,  
> Until upon my face  
> The Judgment push his Picture —  
> Presumptuous of Your Place —
> 
> Of This — Could Man deprive Me —  
> Himself — the Heaven excel —  
> Whose invitation — Yours reduced  
> Until it showed too small —


	3. I asked no other thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of the previous. :)

Gaby’s eyes drift open, hazy with sleep and the fading hum of adrenaline and vodka. A heavy arm is draped over her waist, she notices. Her head is pillowed on the other. Last night’s puzzle pieces begin to fit together: the honeypot, the inevitable, untimely interruption, her fight with Illya.

_Illya._

The warm body now molded around hers, holding her until she fell asleep. Still holding her as she wakes. Just like he had promised.

Gaby feels herself relax, lets her fingers skim idly over his arm, the silk of his dress shirt. He hadn’t bothered to change. Neither had she. Affection surges through her for his sacrifice. She knows how particular he can be.

Illya hums, low and sleepy, and she feels it. The rumble of his voice, the tip of his nose nuzzling her neck, and the soft, quick kiss he places there. “Gaby?”

She flips over to face him, settles lazily back into his embrace. Illya hesitates before his arm lowers over her again, his free hand cradling the base of her skull. She smiles, and warm and sleepy and _safe,_ she closes the distance between them.

The kiss is a gentle one, a slow brush of lips, foreheads touching as their breath mingles in the aftermath. Gaby curls one hand into the front of his shirt, smooths the other down his neck. She sighs. She doesn’t want to let him go. Doesn’t want to forfeit this moment to decide their fate.

“I suppose you have to make a telephone call.”

Illya takes her hand from his neck and kisses it, reunites it with her other at his chest. “I already did.”

Her pulse pounds wildly, heart rabbiting away at this declaration. It takes her a moment to remember how to breathe. “And?”

“It is all taken care of.”

Gaby pushes up onto her forearms, looks down at him with worry and disbelief. “What did you _ask,_ Illya, and what did it cost you?”

He smiles, sweeps a hand over her back in soothing, hypnotic strokes. “I asked no other thing than to stay. Here. With you.”

Illya stills her question with another kiss, slow and deliberate. “Waverly has secured a new contract for me. A _permanent_ one. For you and Cowboy too,” he adds.

“The KGB,” she whispers. “Your handler.”

“I do not belong to them anymore.” He pulls her easily on top of him, brushes a curl from her face. “I only belong to you.”

Gaby locks eyes with him, trying to find the lie, the loophole. _Can she trust in this?_ There’s only one way to find out. “Prove it,” she says. An order, breathlessly given.

Illya smirks up at her. His eyes are bright with humor… and a hint of mischief she hasn’t seen before. He rolls them over suddenly, pins her beneath him in one, deft movement. His lips ghost over her ear and she shivers with it.

“If you insist…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ASKED no other thing,  
> No other was denied.  
> I offered Being for it;  
> The mighty merchant smiled.
> 
> Brazil? He twirled a button,  
> Without a glance my way:  
> “But, madam, is there nothing else  
> That we can show to-day?”


	4. Because He loves Her

The door to his office opens with such force that Waverly is half-tempted to check the wall for dents afterwards. He is thankful to see that the handle is still attached, though it is the _man_ , rather, who appears to be unhinged.

“Oleg.” Waverly gives a polite nod and moves to pour the man a cup of tea. The KGB spymaster’s arrival may have been unannounced, but it had _not_ been unexpected.

The man is breathing heavily, panting from both rage and exertion. _Had he run up_ all _the stairs to get here?_ Waverly wonders. He imagines he must have. Somehow, an angry ride in the elevator did not have quite the same effect.

“Where is he?” the man growls, jabbing a fat finger at him.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific.”

“You know,” Oleg barks. “You _know.”_

And he does. But before Waverly can say anything, Oleg is roaring again, drawing himself up to his full height and girth. _“Where is he?”_

Waverly observes this ill-tempered display with something close to detachment. It is amusing, to say the least. He settles back in his chair, unimpressed and certainly unintimidated. “Sit down, Oleg, and for God’s sake, have some manners.”

The man scowls, but finally acquiesces. He even accepts the proffered cup of tea, though his free hand grips his knee with barely concealed restraint. “Kuryakin,” he says thickly, “is missing.”

“And you think I know where he is,” Waverly surmises.

“Do you deny it?”

“There’s nothing _to_ deny. I assure you that Mr. Kuryakin has had a clean break with UNCLE ever since you recalled him. What he has or has _not_ done in the days that followed is none of my concern.”

“What about your _other_ agent? The German girl.” Oleg’s smile is a dark, dangerous, little thing. “I remember her. Rome. The Vinciguerras. You are not concerned with _her_ whereabouts?”

Waverly’s grip tightens ever so slightly on the handle of his teacup. He takes a deep sip of Earl grey and steels his composure. The anger thrums hot and cold inside him, just beneath the surface. “As far as I am aware, Miss Teller is back behind your Wall. I believe _your_ men saw to that.”

Oleg’s shrug is an indifferent one, though the malicious glint in his eye is anything but. “She was a defector. Got caught. _Very_ careless of you, Alex.”

“More careless than losing your top agent?”

The Russian’s face hardens. “Kuryakin disobeyed _direct orders_ to go to East Berlin. He and the Teller girl are missing, and you are saying that you had—” he pounds a meaty fist on Waverly’s desk causing his tea service to rattle, “— _nothing_ to do with it?”

“None whatsoever,” Waverly says, and even Oleg can see that it’s the truth. “This was entirely self-sanctioned.”

“And why would he do something like that?” he snarls.

“Because he loves her.” His voice is calm, much calmer than he feels. “And because he knows you can’t do a single, _blessed_ thing to stop him.”

Waverly stills the outburst with a raised hand and a piercing gaze. “I can’t help you. Nor will I. If Kuryakin and Teller are in the wind, then I suggest you cut your losses and leave well enough alone. I’d hate to see you _truly_ regret this.”

“You think the KGB can’t hunt them down?” he snaps. “That we need your help to do so?”

 _Then why are you here?_ Waverly wants to retort, but chooses not to stoop to that level. He peers over his glasses at the spymaster instead. “That depends. How many agents are you willing to sacrifice before you take the hint?”

He leans forward, a sharpened edge to his voice. “Let them die, Oleg, and then _let them live their lives_ in peace. They won’t trouble you if you don’t. Trust me, it’s much better that way. For all of us.”

Waverly sets his teacup down and rises to his feet, his pistol brought to bear. He smiles blandly at the infuriated Russian. “I’m going to ask you to leave now,” he says, then shrugs. “It'd be a shame to waste a bullet.”

Oleg sputters incoherently before storming out of the office, countless oaths and threats muttered in his wake. Waverly sighs.

He tucks the gun away and turns on the radio, fiddling with the dial until the sharp hiss of static settles into a taut, anticipatory silence. Waverly pours himself another cup of tea and waits for Agent Solo to send him a message.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because He loves Her  
> We will pry and see if she is fair  
> What difference is on her Face  
> From Features others wear.
> 
> It will not harm her magic pace  
> That we so far behind—  
> Her Distances propitiate  
> As Forests touch the Wind
> 
> Not hoping for his notice vast  
> But nearer to adore  
> 'Tis Glory's far sufficiency  
> That makes our trying poor.


	5. Beauty - be not caused - It Is

Gaby rolls her eyes behind the dressing room screen and shucks off her dress—the latest disaster in an increasingly insufferable line of “who’s who” in the design world.

The canary-yellow Cardin pools at her feet, and she doesn’t bother to pick it up. _Leave that to the men,_ she thinks. Gaby is sure they’ll throw a fit when they see the chaos she’s caused (not that they don’t expect it by now), and she’s _determined_ to get _some_ enjoyment out of this.

The next gown is offered to her, and Gaby sighs as she snatches it out of Illya’s politely outstretched hand, resisting the urge to yank him back here with it. She wonders just how _much_ he might indulge her if she did.

Her fingers fumble with the zipper at the thought. Gaby exhales slowly through her nose to steady herself as she slips into a waterfall of strappy, green silk. She is busy settling the lines of her dress, smoothing her palms where it hugs her narrow curves, when her partners’ voices drift over to her.

Gaby is used to tuning them out, their incessant bickering, their needling remarks, but there is something… _heated_ in the way Illya is speaking.

“Beautiful?” she hears him scoff. “You can’t _make_ Gaby beautiful.”

She frowns at that. Her eyes narrow at her reflection, and her fingers are inching towards the nearest shoe, ready to prove a point if he doesn’t explain himself.

“I can certainly try,” Solo retorts. His voice is light, teasing, but the Russian doesn’t seem to take it that way.

“No,” he insists. “You cannot.”

Gaby is halfway out of the dressing room with her improvised weapon when Illya speaks again. “Is not about effort. Beauty—” and here his voice hitches ever so slightly, “beauty is not _caused._ It _is.”_

The kitten heel clatters to the ground as she stills. She is ensconced in shadow, just out of her partners sight. Not that they are looking at her.

Solo hums, considering. “And you think our mechanic is one of these… inherent beauties?”

“You have eyes, don’t you, Cowboy?”

“That I do, Peril. And you’re absolutely right.” There is mischief, slight but menacing in his tone. Gaby can see the way Illya seems to brace himself for it. “You couldn’t hide how you feel about her even if you tried.”

A breathy gasp escapes her as she presses the back of a cool hand to her hot face. A tremor ripples from her core to her legs as she squares her shoulders and steps out into the light, looking infinitely calmer than she feels.

Gaby is sure the American is smirking, looking between the two of them with a knowing smugness. She is sure there are a thousand quips and entendres racing through his mind, but Gaby ignores him.

She only has eyes for Illya.

The man in question is caught like a deer in headlights before him, a soft flush to his cheeks as he straightens. She commits every detail to memory: the quick raise of his brows, the darkening of his eyes as they dart over her, the slight parting of his lips. The way his breath leaves his lungs all at once, like he’d been forgetting to breathe, the bob of his throat as he swallows. The flexing of his fingers as if he’s trying to stop himself from reaching out for her.

The thrill of it shimmers through her as she sways closer into his space, her gaze locked onto his. Gaby tilts her head to the side. There is fire in her veins and steel in her spine. She wants to snap at Illya, wants to curl at his feet.

Instead, she looks up at him, offers herself like a queen on the chessboard. Regal, powerful, surrendering to his strategy, anticipating his touch.

“Well?” she asks finally. “How do I look?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beauty—be not caused—It Is—  
> Chase it, and it ceases—  
> Chase it not, and it abides—  
> Overtake the Creases
> 
> In the Meadow—when the Wind  
> Runs his fingers thro' it—  
> Deity will see to it  
> That You never do it—


	6. Her smile was shaped like other smiles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This could be seen as a continuation of the previous, or its own stand-alone vignette. Either way, hope you enjoy! :)

_There’s something about his chop shop girl,_ he thinks.

Her smile was shaped like other smiles, but only hers could affect him like this. Illya is weak for it—the curl of her lips, the flash of her teeth, dimples like the sun peeking out of a cloudy sky—overcome by something inexplicably tender, something sharp and possessive too.

She is her own woman, he knows this, but she is _his._ And he wants nothing more than to be the cause, be the _recipient_ of that smile.

Gaby does not smile at him now as she looks up at him. Expectant. Inviting his critique. He lets his gaze skim down her body, as gentle as his hands would be, as gentlemanly as he must. A shaky breath shudders through him as she turns in a lazy circle, baring her back under his watchful eye.

He could swear there’s a hint of a grin as she peers over her shoulder at him, before she turns again to face him.

“Well?”

“You look…” he coughs. “You look—”

“Beautiful?” Solo supplies. Illya jerks. He’d almost forgotten the man was here. Their earlier conversation still rings through his ears, scorching the tips of them as he focuses his attention back on Gaby.

He lifts a hand to tuck a stray curl behind her ear, longs to cup her cheek, drag her into a kiss. His palm ghosts over her shoulder, down her arm, fingers tangling with hers as he does pull her closer.

Gaby pitches forward, free hand splaying over his chest, face inches from his own. Illya cranes his neck to look down at her flushed face, the entrancing depth of her eyes. He hums, low in his chest, and wonders if she can feel it.

Wonders if it would be professional to ask. His thumb smooths over the back of her hand before he lifts it over her head, twirls her as if they were dancing. Illya schools his face into something serious. Stern even.

“Not bad.”

Gaby’s mouth falls open in silent indignation, and this time, Illya is the one to smirk. Her glare glances off of him harmlessly as she draws herself up to her full height, prepared to demand a retraction.

He softens in the face of righteous German fury. “You look exquisite, Gaby. Like art.”

“Art?” she repeats, something hushed and hopeful in that one syllable.

“Oh, yes, _please,_ do explain that one, Peril.”

Illya shoots him a withering look. “She is like your paintings, your sculptures. As beautiful as they may be, it doesn’t matter unless they make you feel something.”

 _And that is it,_ he thinks. For the thousands of beautiful smiles and beautiful women he’s come across, none of them have ever made him _feel_ the way he feels with Gaby.

Gaby edges closer to him. His thoughts in her mind, his question on her lips. “And what is it that _you_ feel, Illya?”

There are too many answers to that, and none of them fit for Cowboy’s ears. Even if they were alone, Illya doesn’t know if he even _could_ admit to any of them. He longs to show her instead. Murmur them into her skin, espouse her virtues in every eloquent sweep of his hands.

Instead, he reaches for her wrist, presses her palm flat to his chest. His fingers curl around hers, lets her warmth bleed into his skin where his breaths are slow and even and his heart beats strong and true.

“Not bad,” he says again.

Gaby punches him in the arm and laughs. Head tossed back, leaning into him for support. She draws back to look up at him again, and there it is. That smile: brilliant and dimpled.

 _Yes,_ he thinks fondly. _There’s something about his chop shop girl._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Her smile was shaped like other smiles—  
> The Dimples ran along—  
> And still it hurt you, as some Bird  
> Did hoist herself, to sing,  
> Then recollect a Ball, she got—  
> And hold upon the Twig,  
> Convulsive, while the Music broke—  
> Like Beads—among the Bog –
> 
> A happy lip—breaks sudden—  
> It doesn’t state you how  
> It contemplated—smiling—  
> Just consummated—now –  
> But this one, wears its merriment  
> So patient—like a pain—  
> Fresh gilded—to elude the eyes  
> Unqualified, to scan—


End file.
